


What They Could Never Say - Letters

by wanderingrebel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:11:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingrebel/pseuds/wanderingrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's 'death', John and Sherlock pour all the unsaid onto paper, as letters they can never post.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, there.  
> I am working very hard on this and this is only the beginning, it'll get better (and longer) very soon.   
> Comments/kudos will be appreciated.   
> Love,  
> Kate x  
> (Sherlock's letters are in normal lettering and John's are in italics.)

_Sherlock,_

_Do you know what it is like to be alone in our flat?_   
_It is empty without you. The clutter is still there, gathering dust because I am too afraid to even look at it, let alone being able to bear touching it. It still has the faint stench of your experiment with tobacco ash, the one I had never ceased to tease you about. The sofa has a dimple your shape and I walk to it at night, praying to the universe to glimpse your silhouette leaning into the book you were last reading – Toxicity and the Simple Antidote._   
_Mycroft called last night, he told me to let time do the healing. I do not think time can ever heal the wound your death has left me with, bleeding and sore._   
_I miss you, Sherlock, and I did not, could not, say so much that I have always wanted to tell you – I love you. Even if you were the most insane, annoying, contemptuous, and pompous and did I mention annoying person ever to exist, you were mine. I love you, Sherlock, please don’t be dead._

_John_

 

John,

I am sorry. I am sorry I hurt you, but you need to realize that I would never have survived your loss.  
I am in Budapest, but of course I cannot let you know that. Mycroft told me he saw you last night, he said you were miserable, more miserable than you had been before we had met.  
I wish I had never met you, John, because now that I have, each minute I spend apart from you I move an inch towards ruination.   
I did not tell you this before, but I love you John.  
You were the only person to accept me, and without you, I feel no such security or comfort of being, unapologetically, who I am.  
I wish I were drunk on you, but I have to make do with cocaine. It’s hardly a sufficient substitute but I need to forget you.   
I am sorry.  
I am sorry.  
I am sorry.

Sherlock

 

_Sherlock,_

_It has been a week and I have made no progress._   
_I curse Mike, now; I wish I had never run into him in the park. I wish I had not followed the path that led me to you._   
_It is difficult to breathe without you, like a knot of all that I never said is stuck in my throat._   
_I burnt your blue dressing-gown today, it smelt of you – when you came back, exuberant, from a crime scene, buzzing with electricity and dripping (more often than not) with blood and slipped into it._   
_I wish I hadn’t burnt it but I endeavor to remove each shred of connection we had._   
_I am looking for another flat, where I can live in solitude, because no flat-mate will ever be you._   
_I need you to come back, Sherlock._   
_Please don’t be dead._   
_Please don’t be dead._   
_Please don’t be dead._

_John._

 

John,

I am surrounded by white – everything here is white. I wake up screaming and they echo.   
Everything about this place is morbid and reminiscent of a past I had thought I’d let go of.   
I am desperate to hear your laughter; it is more intoxicating than whatever I did that got me here.  
Despair is an insidious pest, gnawing at my sanity and confidence. I hope this shall end quickly, like Mycroft assured me, because I need you, John.  
I need you and I love you. I am sorry.

Sherlock

 

_Sherlock,_

_I think I am living inside a nightmare._   
_I am a breathing corpse and you are dead._   
_It has begun to sink in that I shall never see you again – never be blown away by your intelligence, never laugh with you, never run with you, and never, ever get a chance to tell you I love you._   
_You were the only person I could call my very own, you were sunlight to me, or oxygen._   
_I am now living in the far-end of London; in a tiny flat that I hoped wouldn’t remind me of you. It does, though, everything does. How can I forget you when you’re in my blood?_   
_I have never believed in God but if I die, I would want to meet you again, even if it is in another dimension._   
_Please don’t be dead._

_John._

 


	2. Chapter 2

John,

It is not all white, anymore. I am in a place where people laugh, and chatter, and take photographs of everything they do. It’s vapid. Why do they need a photograph for all that they do, some things are best recalled by your memory. How can they photograph the warmth in the air, or the aroma of freshly brewed coffee that they carry, or the twinkling of the fairy-lights against the dark sky, how can they photograph their joy?  
I wish you were here with me, John, and for once we would do all the tourist-y things, and we’d laugh and talk and deduce people and go everywhere, hand in hand, and not photograph anything.  
I am trying to get back to London, but the web is too intricate, it’s too perilous and I cannot risk losing you.  
I am sorry and I love you, John. It’s important you know that I love you.

Sherlock

 

_Sherlock,_

_Harry has suddenly embraced sobriety and the role of my elder sister, dragging me away from my mind, where thoughts of you consume me. Every evening, she insists on taking me out, we usually go to the pub (where she only drinks Coke) and then have dinner and return back to our house._  
 _I am glad I found my sister, but I never knew it would be at the cost of losing you._  
 _You know, you always assumed you had only one friend, but it’s morose how death can surface ache and remorse in everyone – Sally and Anderson checked on me, they still simmer with doubt about you but they were still upset, Lestrade has transferred his division and Mrs. Hudson went to live with her sister for some time, she said she needed a break._  
 _My flat doesn’t feel like home. I yearn to go back to Baker Street but without you, I don’t think that would feel like home, either; only a meretricious residence of a happy past._  
 _I love you. Please don’t be dead._

_John_

 

John,

I am on the move. Molly has not been able to face you, she told Mycroft this. She would feel as if she is deceiving you and she cannot see you heartbroken and miserable.  
Everything here is strange, it is chilly and I am reminded of your jumpers, they were hideous but I loved them, simply because you wore then. And I love everything about you – the way you failed to sustain your girlfriends (because you were so obviously in love with me, you idiot), how you made me laugh like no one ever had, your annoyance at the most mundane things, the swearing at opening the fridge and seeing only severed body parts, how you did the shopping and got endlessly amused when (once or twice) I offered to help you out, your worry about my sleeping habits and the way you coaxed me to eat.  
I am not myself when I am not with you; each case I get to solve does not interest me anymore.  
You, John, were the mystery I wanted to spend my whole life solving.

Sherlock


	3. Chapter 3

_Sherlock,_

_I exist within an illusion, wandering in reminiscence, where everything is not tainted with your death. Death, death, death; it has the power to escalate from a mere word to a lifetime of suffering and despair._   
_I have seen people die, violently, grotesquely, and yet found myself able to deal with them. I cannot cope with your death; time isn’t healing the wound inflicted by your loss, if anything, it has made me startlingly aware of the chasm between reality and a hopeful dream. I carry an ember of hope that does not get extinguished, leaving me with cindered bones. I wish you weren’t dead, Sherlock, because life without you is only envy, burning envy for those who haven’t lost their love and joy like me._   
_Please don’t be dead._

_John_

 

John,

Wherever I travel, I see people together, happy people, hopeful for a life that would not be torn apart.  
I know you wished for such a life, not quite as banal, but a life that would not mean solitude.   
And I wish, endlessly, that I could have shared it with you.   
I wanted to be alone, you know? I preferred being alone, left to my own devices and only my mind to make sense of. You changed that, you made me want to be a better person, you taught me to care and to love. Mycroft was right, caring certainly is a disadvantage, because you changed me and now, I am irrevocably yours, unable to detach myself or concentrate. I did not need an incentive, but your laughter became mine. I love you, John. I am so sorry.

Sherlock

 

_Sherlock,_

_Whenever anything occurs, you are the first person I want to tell, till I realize I cannot._   
_Sally Donovan suggested I take up fishing. What exactly she meant by that, I do not know, am I supposed to talk to fish and then cut them up and cook them for dinner?_   
_I finally mustered up courage to read through my blog, today. It entailed a bottle of wine, breathing into a bag and hideous sobbing in the space of a few hours. The first case we solved together (Well, the case that you solved and made me horribly suspicious of the cabbies) made me smile, bleakly, but smile anyway. Oh, you stupid man, you would have taken that damn pill, wouldn’t you?_   
_I had thought we would be together till we were old and senile, ready to embrace our end like an old friend, but now I know that life is made up of infinite endings. You aren’t a conclusion, though, you’re the person whose absence is more significant than presence (and I do not know why that is, because your presence was bloody staggeringly indelible). I love you, Sherlock._

_John_

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took a while to update! Thank you for reading and the kudos! <3  
> * For ghastly 'feels' read this with Me by The 1975!*  
> Love, Kate xxx

_Sherlock,_

_I wake up in the middle of the night hearing your name, haunted by your presence in your absence, somehow. In that moment, when I am drenched in icy sweat and panting, I would give anything to hear the flutter of your breathing._   
_I am still exploring the hollow life for me that you left behind, vacant and dull, manifesting with novelty all the time – a sliver of memory in everything I do and see._   
_I trace the past like a map, Sherlock, for with you was the only place I did not feel lost._   
_I met a neighbor today – Mary. It is vitalizing to talk to someone who is not aware of all that I have loved and lost who does not see me as broken; she does not know who I am and the anonymity is a respite from the clumsy bouquet of pity I am handed._   
_Mary made me laugh, genuinely, after so long and I felt almost alive with her._   
_I cannot love anyone like I love you, Sherlock, but I am welcoming the distraction earnestly._   
_Please don’t be dead._

_John._

 

John,

I think you would have been proud of me – I sleep now. Sleep is for the weak and also for the heartbroken. I sleep to ease the ache, to stop myself from thinking about you, I crave oblivion and all that I briefly forget because to be awake is to be consumed by you and hear by heart pound – John, John, John.  
I remember the exact moment I fell in love with you, John Hamish Watson – you were taking Sarah out to the cinema, and I felt a rush of envy, of sheer longing to be the one you wanted to take out to, well, even the cinema wouldn’t have been dull and predictable with you. I was such a jealous fool, for only a person in love could have paid no heed to the obvious threat of going to the ‘cultural show’. Our timing was lousy, but the love is real and I hope for atonement.   
I can’t believe I am talking like a normal, idiotic human being. As much as I love you, John, I hate you to have made me value sentiment and to feel it.   
I am sorry.  
I am sorry.  
I am sorry.

Sherlock


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this! <3

_Sherlock,_

_How long has it been?_   
_A month if I count, a lifetime if I don’t – I am so harshly aware of each moment of your absence, each tick of the clock I spend without you; it is insane how much I miss you. Please, Sherlock, don’t be dead._   
_My day was a bit of a blur, yet agonizingly slow. Mary, Harry and I went to the Chinese restaurant near Baker Street and I was greeted with a wave of emotion and reminiscence. My mind immediately flew to the first day we met – our first case together – A Study in Pink, I had written despite your scorn._   
_I can’t help but think, in an infinite loop – why us?_   
_Why did this happen to us?_   
_The cruelty of fate is almost laughable. Why did it have to be us?_   
_And I shall never know the answer and for once, I am glad to be ignorant._

_John_

John

I am blinded by the white encompassing me, yet again.  
The curtain is drawn, constantly, and I do not know how long I have been here – limp and languid.   
The needle prick was just an alternative, a way to stop the incessant downpour of remorse and longing in my mind. I wanted to get away from my own self; I wanted to eclipse every thought about you.   
But you are the sun, exuberant and incandescent and I cannot do anything but wait for the sky to darken.   
Mycroft is wary of me, as if caring is contagious.   
“Caring is a disadvantage,” he said to me, his gaze was derisive.   
I believed so, too, before I met you.   
I do not want to stay in this expanse of white, John, please take me home, with you.  
I love you, John, I am so sorry.

Sherlock


	6. Chapter 6

John,

Like a shadow, the reality is not what you merely see – it is a fabrication undulating with light.   
I may only be a figment of your past now, but you – all of you – are my past, my present, ticking like a time bomb into the explosion of a future we may or may not share.   
I careen through the while cavern, screaming and pleading, only to have them echo and strike me with vengeance. I wish you were the galaxy I were luminous in; for here I am ablaze with anguish and yearning, setting fire to myself from within.   
I am freezing and I want to bury myself in your warmth. Please, John, forgive me. I only have one friend – you – and I could not have lost you. I would have lost my mind if I had.   
I am living to shape a happy future for you, where being with me isn’t a threat to your survival. They have begun to administer morphine to me and I wake up to wait for the needle to cradle me to oblivion.  
I am sorry.

                     I am sorry.

                                         I am sorry-

 

_Sherlock,_

_I am haunted by your absence. I slept early last night, exhausted from the emotional ordeal of going back to Baker Street to visit Mrs. Hudson._   
_She has accepted your death. It is probably only I who is pining for you, still carrying a splinter of hope to see you again, to touch your skin and to be illuminated by your mind, again._   
_I met a physicist today, he told me that no energy is created in the universe and therefore, none is destroyed and I can feel each particle you were made of – each crooked smile, each smug grin, each intense contemplation, each furrow of your brow – everything you did is still in the universe, like a constellation of your life . To think that your laughter, the flicker of comprehension on your countenance, the sweep of your hair and your errant curl, your bow of a mouth pursed into a moue – is still ebbing and flowing in space, iridescent, is eerily comforting to me, almost as if you are still here beside me._   
_Molly has not spoken to me yet, I only saw her pass a fleeting smile in my direction the other day, when I ran into her at the cinema with Mary. I have not yet told Mary about you. I don’t think I ever will be able to._   
_I love you, even if you are only energy now._

_John_   


 

 

 

  
             


	7. Chapter 7

John,

I am drunk on the ache of craving – of wanting to trace your skin like a map, to awaken to the gentle thrum of your heart, to discover what only faint exhaustion can coax out of you, to write all that I never had the courage to say on your mouth and to taste your fury and perplexity and hopefully, spend the rest of my life with you.  
I am a prisoner inside my own mind. In solitude, I seek self-destruction and let my mind wander to you – and I wonder why you loved me so.  
You and I, we’re not a balanced brew, not a saccharine melody about love, not calming tea on a rainy dusk. We’re an explosion, an ethereal symphony, bitter iced-coffee on a tempestuous dawn and yet, I feel at home with you.  
I put the kettle on, wishing you would press a hand over my forehead (as you did on the one occasion I decided to make tea) and ask me, incredulous and mocking, “I’m going to call the ambulance, Sherlock, you’re ill.”  
I would scowl, and say nothing, only see you chuckle to yourself and busy yourself with the tea.  
When you would hand me the cup, you’d smirk and sing, “To think you were trying to make tea,” and wipe a mock tear from your eye, “I didn’t think I’d live to see you become so domestic.”  
I’d try to grimace but surrender to the smile twitching along my mouth and we’d sit there, in silent harmony, only aware of each other.  
There is so much I want to experience again, and change it to somehow, anyhow, tell you how much I love you.  
I love you, John.  
I am sorry.

Sherlock

 

John,

Each morning, I wake up to children shrieking and laughing with festive cheer.  
I thought of buying and decorating a Christmas tree but I couldn’t. Not when the last Christmas I spent, was with you and your pledge on wearing that silly jumper. Nothing I said or did shook your resolve and you, with all your incandescent glory, wore that hideous jumper and managed to look delectable in it. Oh, the agony I had to endure to not kiss your wine-stained mouth and give you a proper, long-overdue Christmas gift.  
You would look quite ravishing wearing only the jumper, you certainly would, but I digress.  
Festivity, I now realize, is about love and is of no celebration or cheer to someone who has lost love like I. Us.  
I wish I could graze your pink, slightly chapped with the cold lips with mine.  
I love you.  
I love you and without you, I am only a shadow of who I was.  
I am sorry. Please, John, if you can, please forgive me.

Merry Christmas!  
Sherlock

 

John,

Ordinary people always say, “New year, new you!” and then list all that they loathe about the life they’re living.  
I am making a list of all that I want to do, too.  
Here it is –

  1. Meet John Watson.
  2. Make John Watson a cup of tea.
  3. Tell John Watson that I love him.
  4. Kiss John Watson.
  5. Keep John Watson safe.



I never asked you if you made such resolutions, or if you ever did.  
I love you and I wish to do all that I have cataloged very soon.

I am sorry.  
Sherlock

 

_Sherlock,_

_I have not had the courage to say this to you for a while – I am marrying Mary._  
 _I can’t love anyone like I love you, with all consuming intensity and want, but Mary is the next best person I know. Probably the best person I know right now, because you are dead. And no amount of pleading, praying and hideous weeping is miraculously resurrecting you. With Mary, I have a second chance – at living, at laughing and healing the burning gash your death scarred me with – and I could not ask for more._  
 _I asked Lestrade to be my best man and he was quite startled I was getting married to a woman. He gaped at me and finally managed, “I thought you were gay! All that, um, sexual tension between you and, um, Sherlock, it was almost palpable.”_  
 _I love her, but I love you more. Even though you are dead, you shall always be a part of me and I do not know why I am drenched with guilt and the feeling of betraying you for I know you never did love me back._  
 _I am sorry. I really am, Sherlock. I wish it were you who I was marrying, my best friend._

_John_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!   
> So, I changed the 'pattern' a bit, do you like it?  
> A huge thank you for reading this!   
> Oh, and did you catch Benedict at the BAFTA Britannia awards yesterday? *flails and sobs*  
> Kate x:)

_ ~ Incoming call ~ _

“Hello?”

“Um, hi, Sherlock. This is-“

“Molly, obviously. What are you _desperate_ to tell me?”

“It’s about John, um……”

“Sherlock? Are you still on the line?”

“…….yes, I’m here, what about John? Did something happen to him? You sound dreadfully tense. _Is he okay, Molly?”_

“Oh, God, Sherlock, I don’t know how to break it to you, but, um, John. Sherlock – John’s getting married. In a month.”

“Sherlock?”

“ _Sherlock_?!”

_ ~ Line disconnected ~ _

__

John,

What does it take, John, for your heart to splinter into a million minuscule shards?  
For me, it was a sentence – a string of words, in the span of a minute.   
And this, anguish, the flood billowing onto my flame of hope, extinguishing it and soaking me with a wave of utter, unprecedented agony. Agony that does not know any bounds or logic. Just suffering.   
I have never experienced this, John.   
Also, I have realized how erroneous my deduction about your…emotions towards me was. You never loved me the way I loved you.   
I doubt if I shall be able to fight this arduous battle anymore.   
I doubt I shall be able to stay alive.   
I love you, John, I will always love you.

Sherlock.

P.S. I hope you have a happy married life. Even though I wish it were me you were marrying. 

 

 

_Sherlock,_

_You know what the bloody hilarious thing is?_   
_I’ll enlighten your daft arse:_   
_When I was in Afghanistan, I always imagined a future where I would have a quiet, happy and normal life, you know? A routine, family holidays, maybe even a dog – the whole shebang. The thought that one day I’d go home to a wife, maybe even a child after a day’s work was comforting. It transported me away from reality._   
_What I never did imagine was being invalidated home and sharing a flat with…you._   
_You and the bloody drama and danger surrounding you. And I never thought I’d fall in love with you. It was like being in a suspense-thriller film, Sherlock, but where most films have a happy ending, our ending wasn’t an ending, at all – neither any credits, nor a catchy tune – only separation and ensuing despair._   
_You saved me and I couldn’t do anything, I could do nothing, I wasn’t even able to keep you alive, Sherlock._   
_Forgive me, Sherlock._   
_I love you._

_John_

 

_ ~ Incoming call ~ _

“ _I KNEW I COULDN’T TRUST YOU, MYCROFT_!”

“Always so dramatic, Sherlock. What have I done to receive the pleasure…?”

“John’s getting married.”

“Indeed, so I’ve been informed.”

“And you did not think of telling me, Mycroft?”

“I intended to, but I needed to confirm it for myself before I did. Surely that’s not illegal now, is it, Sherlock _?”_

“Did you? Confirm it, I mean. Who is John…marrying?”

“Someone named Mary. His neighbor.”

“ _John doesn’t live in Baker Street now?_ ”

“He moved out 7 weeks ago. Couldn’t stand living in a flat “haunted by your presence” he put it.”

“I’m going to meet him, Mycroft. I need to meet him immediately.”

“Let’s not make rash decisions, Sherlock. You needn’t worry, he doesn’t love this Mary girl, anyway.”

“ _He’s marrying Mary, for God’s sake!”_

“Does not mean he loves her.”

“Talking to you is excruciating.”

“How very kind of you, Sherlock. I imagine I’d have to install surveillance outside your….residence agai-“

  _~ Line disconnected ~_

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers!  
> The ninth chapter, already! I feel glad. Although the name of the story suggests the format of it (letters, haha), I'm writing this chapter (and perhaps the next 4 chapters) as normal dialogues and happenings because, well, writing letters got a tad tedious. I hope you'd put up with my lack of experience in writing such scenes and continue to read this!   
> Love you loads,  
> Kate :) :)  
> (OH AND WHO HAS A TUMBLR?! - leave your URL in the comments/message it to me, I'd loooovee to follow and talk to you!)

John,

I want to talk to you, John, desperately. I cannot wait, not anymore, I need to see you. I love you and you love me, but you wish to marry Mary and this is too complex and inane and I am dying to sort the mess I made out, immediately.

Sherlock

 

* * *

Sherlock ran up the staircase in a daze, desperate and fuming.   
He grit his teeth together, and knocked loudly on the blue door, tapping his feet impatiently. “Open the bloody door!” He hissed, knocking again.   
A woman answered, panting slightly as she held the door open and glanced curiously at Sherlock. “Hello,” she began awkwardly, when Sherlock pushed the door completely open and stepped inside.   
The flat was clumsily decorated, either because it was only an ephemeral residence or the woman had no interest in banal decoration. There were empty tea-cups, still faintly warm on the dining table, and a huge pile of recently bought, second-hand reading material stacked ineptly on near the fireplace.   
“I’m calling the police!” The woman shrieked, her shoulder-length blonde hair messy and her expression taut and enraged. “Excuse me!”  
Sherlock scowled, scanning the room urgently, “I’m Sherlock, pleasure.”   
The woman stared incredulously at Sherlock before letting out a petrified scream and collapsing onto the futon.  
There was a thunder of hasty footsteps and a discreet, “Mary, are you alright?” as John came inside.   
For what seemed like a year, John and Sherlock simply looked at each other, silently and without moving at all. John forgot about Mary lying unconscious on the sofa, he forgot his panic and rush, he forgot he was standing in Mary’s transient home before she and him bought a new place together, he forgot that he had burnt his right hand while making tea in the morning and abruptly, with all the force he could muster, John punched Sherlock – a heavy and bloody punch that knocked Sherlock off his hesitant face and left John standing, alone, trying quieten the furor of fury, dread, exhilaration, incredulity and blinding rage that had broken out in his mind.  
Sherlock stood up, his eyes gleaming with tender affection and remorse and relief. “I’m sorry, John.” He exhaled slowly.   
John sat down, clutching his leg and glanced at Sherlock. The fury was wearing away into a chaos of questions. It was as if his insides were being lit aflame, all that he had contained within him for three months was about to burst into flames and set fire to the whole of London.   
“Why?” John asked, weakly. “Why, Sherlock?”  
Sighing, Sherlock walked over to John, “It was either me or you, John. I’m sorry.”  
“All this time, Sherlock, I’ve been believing you were dead. I was broken, tormented and you never once thought of trusting me with your…..”  
“I wanted to, John. I really did.”  
Mary stirred and John suddenly became aware of her existence. Tearing his eyes away from Sherlock’s, he felt her pulse and fetched her a glass of water.   
Finally, when Mary sat up, trembling a little, he said flatly, “Mary, this is Sherlock who was only pretending to be dead for the past few months and Sherlock,” he paused, “this is Mary, my fiancée.”

* * *

 


End file.
